


Something Like Shagging

by Amedia



Series: Facts over Feelings [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Concussions, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-11
Updated: 2010-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amedia/pseuds/Amedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People with concussions forget things. Sequel to "Facts Over Feelings." More fluff, including some angsty fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Like Shagging

John awoke feeling much better than he had a right to. His head was still tender where someone had slammed a gun into it, but aside from that he felt surprisingly well-rested and ... at ease. As if things were actually going right for a change.

He luxuriated in the knowledge that he didn't have to get up any particular time, and dozed a little. _What did I dream about last night? Something good, I think. Shagging? Snogging? Something like that._ He scratched the good side of his head, but the memory stayed obstinately obscure.

After a little while, he put on a bathrobe and wandered out into the living area. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch tinkering with his cell phone; he had the back off and several components spread about. He looked up when John came in. "How are you feeling? Sleep well?"

 _He must be worried_ , thought John. _He almost sounds like a normal human being._ "Slept like a rock, as far as I know." He thought for a moment. "I think I remember you waking me up in the middle of the night and saying that since I was awake, I could go back to sleep. Probably dreamed that."

A fleeting expression crossed Sherlock's face; it vanished before John could identify it. Sherlock said casually, "No, that was real. Sarah told me to check every so often and make sure you weren't unconscious. I didn't actually intend to wake you up that time."

"It's all right," said John, wandering into the kitchen to look for something breakfast-like. "I must have fallen right back to sleep."

* * *

  
The sign over the shop entrance said, "Say It With Flowers." John went in and looked at a few displays, but none of them seemed to say quite what he had in mind.

"May I help you?" asked the man behind the counter.

John went over to the counter. "Well, I was looking for a bouquet that would say, 'I'm sorry our night out was interrupted by my barking mad roommate, an acrobatic melee, and a violent kidnapping, with time out for a spell of unspeakably tedious research, but I am chuffed at how well you took it all, and I'm wondering if you'd like to do it again.'"

"You have got to be kidding," said the man behind the counter. "There's not that many flowers in the entire world."

John sighed. "I thought not," he said.

  


* * *

  
Sherlock was still sprawled on the couch when John came in; he had finished tinkering with his cell phone and now appeared to be reading three or four newspapers at once. "So you didn't send her anything?" he asked without looking up, sounding disagreeable. "Not even a woefully inadequate bunch of daisies?"

The last remnants of John's good mood evaporated. "You know, Sherlock, that's _really_ annoying."

"Sor-ry!" Sherlock said in a sarcastic sing-song.

"No you're not."

"Ha. Got me on that one." He didn't sound amused.

John waited a few moments. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to tell me how you knew where I was?"

Sherlock turned a page. "You just _said_ you found it annoying."

"It's _more_ annoying when you don't tell me how you did it." John's head was aching full force now.

Sherlock looked over at him, then flicked his eyes back to the paper. "Why don't you tell me how I did it?"

"Me? Tell you?"

"You know my methods."

Despite his irritation, John couldn't resist the challenge. He sniffed his jacket. "You got the flower shop from the smell."

"Obvious. What else?"

"Okay, I need to figure out how you know I was there to buy flowers for a girl--no, I suppose that's obvious, too. Given the way our date ended last night, that's the single most likely reason I'd be in a flower shop at all." He paused. Sherlock nodded. John continued. "But how, how did you know I didn't buy any flowers? That's the hard part. Hm."

He walked up and down the flat. "What would be different if I _had_ bought flowers? Well, I'd have less money in my wallet, but you don't have X-ray vision. Wait..." he thought for another minute. "I forgot my gloves this morning, so even if you can't see my wallet, you can see my hands. If I bought flowers, I would have had to address the card, and maybe you know their pen leaks, and I don't have ink on my hands..." He trailed off. "No good. There are four flower shops on this block alone, so a lack of ink could just mean I bought flowers at a shop where the pen doesn't leak."

He snuck a look at Sherlock, who was trying very hard not to smirk. "I'm not even close, am I?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Okay, new line of thought." John rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to boost his flagging mental powers. "In order for me to send her flowers, I'd have to know her address, which, actually, I don't. So I would have had to call the policeman who gave her a ride home last night, and you gave Lestrade orders to let you know immediately if I did such a thing, because ... you just have to know everything about everybody. Lestrade hasn't called, therefore I didn't call, therefore I didn't send flowers."

Sherlock was openly grinning now. "John, this is better than telly. It's like watching a really bad comedian do a really bad impression of me." He lifted a finger and shook it at John. "But you're thinking of the wrong kind of clue entirely. I've been training myself to recognize your mood from your footsteps, and all seventeen thuds as you trudged up the stairs spoke of failure."

John stopped pacing. "Oh," he said coldly. "I see. I thought you actually wanted to hear what I had to say. Turns out you just wanted someone to make fun of. It's obvious that mocking me puts you into a good mood, so I suppose I should be glad that I was able to accommodate." He flopped down into a chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes, wishing the throbbing would go away.

Sherlock snorted. "Oh, if I thought you really were that dim I would never laugh at you." His voice became distant. "I simply find it hard to reconcile your apparently serviceable intellect with the utter stupidity of your behavior. I suppose I thought that this exercise would provide some sort of insight, rather than comic relief."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said John wearily.

"I don't understand why you're throwing away so much time and effort when you already have what you want."

John brought his head forward and opened his eyes with the intention of glaring at Sherlock, but instead found himself gripping the armrests as the sudden movement dizzied him. "I still don't know what you mean," he finally said.

Sherlock's voice dripped scorn. "Perhaps I should explain it in words of one syllable."

"Wait... what?" Sherlock's tone wasn't familiar, but his words were. John groped in his memory, but just as he thought he had grasped something, it slipped away, and the attempt to concentrate was making his head hurt worse. He drew his breath in sharply, pressed his hands to his forehead, and tried to will the faint images into solidity.

There had been warmth, and some sort of conversation, maybe? He had been holding onto something, just before he fell back to sleep ... he reached out with one hand, trying to recreate the movement, but the world was spinning relentlessly now and he had to hold onto his head again.

"John?" Sherlock appeared in front of him as if by magic; surely no human being could have crossed the room so quickly. John felt a cool hand touching one cheek, then the other. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock kneeling before him, the snappish facade completely gone, open worry in his eyes.

"I can't remember," John said. "I can't ..." He squeezed his eyes shut again, and then opened them. "It's a common side effect of concussion, you know," he said. He tried to focus on Sherlock's face, but trying to focus now hurt almost as much as trying to remember. "I'm sorry, it's obviously important to you." Something flickered in Sherlock's eyes. John thought some more, his mind floundering but soldiering on. "I know it was important to me," he added slowly. "I felt it fading away this morning, and I've been trying to chase it down all day, but I can't get it back."

Sherlock made a faint, suppressed sound and leaned forward suddenly, wrapping his arms around John. "I'm sorry," he said, his head tucked so tightly against John's shoulder that the words were hard to make out. "I should have realized. I thought ... it didn't matter, or you didn't mean it, or you were trying to pretend it didn't happen, or ... I don't know what I thought, I couldn't make any of it fit with your character as I understood it, and I find it deeply frustrating when I can't find a way to reconcile inconsistent evidence."

John grinned despite himself. Leave it to Sherlock to make an incomprehensible apology that turned into an interior monologue about his thought processes. He patted Sherlock's shoulder. He had no idea what to say next, and words didn't seem very important, anyway.

Sherlock pulled back and looked at him closely. "You should be resting," he said.

John was in no position to argue. "You're right," he said, and began the weary process of climbing to his feet. It got unexpectedly easier all of a sudden, and he realized that Sherlock was helping him.

"Lean on me," Sherlock said. John tried to lean, misjudged the direction, and found himself falling for a moment until strong arms closed around him. He shut his eyes and the world righted itself. They walked together to John's bedroom, John letting Sherlock take more of his weight as they went.

Becoming horizontal was an unspeakable relief. John felt the bed dip slightly as Sherlock sat down beside him. "Are you going to be all right?" Sherlock asked in a tone that wavered between heartfelt concern and scientific curiosity, with perhaps a bit of self-interest thrown in for good measure.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking down at him, with the same mixture of expression on his face as in his voice. "I'll be fine," John said. "I just need to rest." Sherlock made no move to get up, and John decided to close his eyes and relax in companionable silence.

Now that he was no longer trying to remember, flashes of memory stole back into his consciousness. "There was a word, wasn't there?" he said aloud. "It was important to get the definition right."

"Yes, that's right!" Sherlock's voice was encouraging.

"Something like shagging, but that wasn't it. Not shagging, not snogging..." John's voice faded as his memory went misty again and he struggled to pursue it. He reached out without opening his eyes and, as he hoped, Sherlock took his hand.

"How about snuggling?" Sherlock said.

John grinned broadly. "Yes! That was it! Snuggling. I knew it wasn't shagging. Or at least, I hoped it wasn't."

"You _hoped_ it wasn't? You just couldn't bear the idea?" There was no doubt about it. Sherlock was pouting.

"You idiot," said John, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "I couldn't bear the idea that I might have forgotten our first time."

He felt Sherlock's other hand covering his own, and he didn't have to open his eyes to know that Sherlock was smiling.

THE END

  


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